Notes and Puzzles
by Koalatala
Summary: Molly is forced to leave her life at 221B, with Sherlock by her side and her son, Hamish, clutching her hand, behind after she finds a threatening note. Desperate to find out what has happened to Molly, Sherlock drags himself and everyone around him into grave danger. Rated T for gore. Pretty angsty.
1. Chapter 1 - the Note

Molly lightly rubbed the small photograph between her fingers. Her dream of family life had been so shortly lived. She didn't want to give it up now, not for the world. However, as it happened, her small perfect family was in jeopardy. This time, it hadn't been her better half who had put himself right in the firing line, it was her. With all her wisdom and knowledge, Molly Hooper had ended up to be no smarter than the next person. So here she was, at 2:30 am in the morning placing a family portrait under her son's pillow for him to discover in the morning, when she was no longer on this earth. A large, salty tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek as she kissed his small head of thick black curls.

_Be good to him, love him with all your heart and don't let him forget me.  
I love you both too much for my own good.  
I'm sorry. — Molly_

She left the note on the slide under Sherlock's microscope for him to discover when he woke. She had managed to persuade her husband to sleep on this night for she knew that he needed it more that he thought he did.

Taking one last look around the flat that had become her home, she put on her thick coat. In one pocket was her phone, fit with a new SIM card, and in the other, a small piece of paper. On that piece of paper was an address. The address of saint Bartholomew's Hospital. Bellow the address was a note: **I knew your husband once, our games were fun. Come and play, Dr Molly Holmes. 3:15am Thursday St. Bart's Hospital rooftop.—JM.**

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

It was the sound of soft whimpering tears and a small hand shaking violently shaking his shoulder that awoke Sherlock Holmes. Through the dim lighting, Sherlock could see his son's blotchy face, red eyes and tear stained cheeks. He sat up straight on the mattress so he could study his son to determine the source of his distraught.

In Hamish's hand was a small photograph, Sherlock recognised the family portrait Molly had insisted in getting taken, much to Sherlock's distaste; the back of the photograph had writing on it, clearly Molly's. Slowly, Sherlock turned his head over his shoulder not wanting to see what he thought he would see.

Sure enough, Molly's side of the bed was empty.

Sherlock turned back to look at Hamish's horrified face. Without a word, Sherlock flung himself from his bed to desperately find his wife. Anything, any evidence that indicated that she hadn't left them, was what he sought after. Any evidence that said she was still home, was what he wanted. But what we want and what we see can be two very different things.

Hamish slowly emerged from the bedroom still clutching the photograph, sobbing.

"Dad-dy," he managed between sobs, "w-what does th-his mean?" His small hand held up the family portrait. Sherlock rushed over to where Hamish was standing and knelt down next to him. Hamish placed the photo into his father's large hands as he pushed his head into the nook of Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock examined the photo. It was creased; many creases were from Hamish's hands but a few were from where Molly had played with the loved photo may times before. She loved this photo, she would never have given it up, let alone write on the back of it. So why? Sherlock turned to photo over.

_To my dear Hamish,  
I love you.  
Remember me.  
Love your mother —Molly _

Sherlock's heart dropped. He read it again. And again. It could not be true. It just couldn't. There was no way that Molly would abandon him. Or Hamish.

"Where did you find this, Hamish?" Sherlock murmured trying to keep his voice as steady as possible as he cradled his son.

"U-under m-my pil-low." His sobs rocked his whole small body.

"When?"

"When I w-woke up-p" a new batch of tears surfaced at the memory of waking up to find his mother gone. Hamish rubbed his head against Sherlock's shoulder, creating a small wet puddle of salty tears on Sherlock's pyjama top. One of Hamish's hands clenched the back of Sherlock's pyjama top, his other arm was laced around Sherlock's neck, in a suffocating grip, allowing his little hand to reach up and grip his father's curls tightly as he grasped onto the little amount of reality that was in the moment.

In a few seconds, Hamish would wake up, run downstairs and find mummy asleep next to daddy. Yes. That's what will happen. It is all a nightmare. He told himself.

"It's all a nightmare, it's all a nightmare…" It only took his a small child, who happened to be part of him and a part of his wife, for Sherlock to experience something that he hadn't experienced in years. Despair. He wrapped this small child in his long arms in a tight hug. Sherlock rested his head on the boy's curls and smelt something he will never smell again. The faint trace of Molly rested in the boy's curls. The smell only made Sherlock's grip on the boy tighter. Until Hamish could bear it no longer.

"Ouch," he mumbled, "you're hurting me…" Sherlock pulled away to look Hamish straight in the eye.

"We will find out what happened to your mum. Don't you worry. Whoever brought this upon all of us will soon find out that no one, no one, messes with a Holmes." Sherlock had never been so certain of anything in his life. Hamish's sobs stopped.

"No one." Hamish repeated his tone definite. Sherlock nodded, to which, a faint smile pulled at the corners of Hamish's lips.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Icy cold snow was falling lightly to the ground around saint Bart's when Molly arrived. Taking in a sharp breath, Molly slowly climbed the stairs and past the reception. Whoever was behind the desk started calling after her. Molly ignored her and continued to walk, quicker now, down the long stretch of hall way to the elevator.

Stepping out onto the roof, all Molly could see was the silhouette of a man amongst the white snow that encircled them. The voice that spoke was not the insane Irish accented madness that she was expecting. It was a smooth, husky British voice that she didn't recognise.

"This is a turn out, isn't it, Molly," she remained silent, "You didn't bring anyone with you, interesting." Stood looking her up and down with a slight nod of approval, "stupid." A wicked smile played at his lips. "The name's Sebastian Moran."

Molly knew the name. He was Moriarty's right hand man. Sebastian was the one who did the dirty work. Moriarty never actually killed anyone, it was always Moran. The presence of death hung over him like a shadow.

In the years after Sherlock's death was faked, this was the man he hunted. Sherlock had lived with her during this time and she had come to mean the the world to him as he already meant the world to her. It was in their celebration of the belief that this assassin was dead, that they became a family. And now here he was, about to tear that family apart.

The assassin gestured for her to come closer as he turned his body slightly away from Molly's direction. If Molly were to try and make a escape, now would be a good time. However, she decided against it knowing if she ran from this assassin, another would shoot her dead without a second glance. Slowly, Molly moved towards Moran. When she was within arms distance, Sebastian laced his arm around Molly's hip and pulled her frighteningly close to his body. They were close enough that Moran could feel her heart rate.

"Feeling nervous, are we?" Moran got no answer from the terrified Molly. Slowly, Molly was walked to the edge of the building. Looking over the edge, Molly began to feel dizzy. Her head swirled, her stomach churned. Molly couldn't fathom how Sherlock had summoned the courage to jump almost seven years ago. As if reading her thoughts Moran spoke again pulling her back from the edge a little bit.

"How did he do it?" Molly didn't answer, she remained staring at the snow covered pavement below. "You should know, you helped him." Her heart plummeted into her stomach. Nobody had known of her input. Sherlock wouldn't allow anyone to know exactly what happened. A magician never reveals his secrets. No only that, but he would never confess that she meant more to him than he cared to admit and if she were put in harm's way because of him, he would never be able to forgive himself.

"Go on, tell me." Still, Molly refused say a word. "It's no secret that you were involved. I mean, isn't it obvious? Nobody cares about pathologists, they're existence is usually ignored throughout society all together. Besides, Jim always told me about how much you cared and how much he didn't. That's why didn't have an assassin on your trail that day. He ignored you, you didn't matter to him; you probably still don't."

Molly's eyes left the pavement to look Moran straight in the eye. Here she got a propped look at dangerous man. He had short, close cropped brown hair, stubble covered his chin, cheeks and under his nose. His eyes were a dark brown and were undeniably sad under the mask stone hard mask of a killer that he wore.

Rage boiled in the pit of Molly's stomach, yet she refused to say anything. The rage, however much she tried, reached her eyes. Sebastian's eyes widened in a mocking way at her sudden ferocity. It was very Moriarty.

"Tell me this, Baby-doll," the nick-name made the hairs on the back of Molly's neck stand up on end, "why did you come tonight? Not only that, why did you come here alone?"

"Why did you summon me?" The question was only mumbled but it was still understood by her captor. An evil grin spread across his face reaching from ear to ear.

"That's clever, you're clever, Baby-doll," again the name made Molly squirm, "why do you think I summoned you here?" His expression was stone hard as he shot Molly a death stare of pure evil. The pressure of the look made Molly coil, fighting her impulse to lash out and hurt the man in the most self defensive way she knew.

"Don't have any ideas? No? Well, let me make this clearer for you." The strong grip of Moran's hand enclosed on Molly's shoulder as she was swung around. Sebastian pointed at the ground of the roof. "Do you know what was found on that spot seven years ago, Dr Hooper? Do you?" Moran's voice was raised and the effect of the echoed thought the snowy night only made him sound more sinister than he already was. Molly had barely started to nod before Moran's evil voice boomed out over London's streets once more.

"It was my life!" The roof was left in silence. Horrified, Molly looked to Moran's face. Unmistakeable tears had began pooling in his dark evil eyes. Even in evil, there is good. "After he was gone, I was stripped of my job, my security and my only friend." The voice that escaped Moran's mouth was shaky, but when it spoke again, it was definite, determined and down right terrifying. "Sherlock was cold, arrogant and didn't know sentiment. Until he met you. Now he will know what it's like to loose everything you have ever loved."

Molly was flung away out of Moran's grasp as he quickly produced a British Army Browning L9A1 from under his jacket. He held it up and directed it straight at Molly's heart.

"It's been a lovely chat. At least your blood will paint a beautiful picture in the snow."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The first thing Sherlock did was phone Lestrade. Despite it still only being 6:00 am in the morning, Lestrade answered his phone. Not only that, he didn't even sound half asleep. His voice was alert, his mind ticking something over.

"What is it now, Sherlock, I'm on a case, I ca—" Lestrade was cut off by Sherlock's monotonic baritones.

"Molly left Hamish and I. From the looks of things, she didn't want to go but went willingly, so she wasn't held at gunpoint, but she was certainly threatened. She left notes of love, but there's no sign of a threatening note from her captor."

"Sher—" Lestrade tried to grab his attention but it didn't work, he kept going rambling about everything he had gathered form his inspection of the flat and the two notes she had left, the second one causing an unfamiliar lump to rise in his throat.

"However, she must've been known to us otherwise his threats would be worthless. I found her SIM card which means she doesn't want to be contact—"

"Sherlock, stop." There was saddened tone of great dismay about his voice. "We found Molly."

"Really? Where?" There was a deafening moment of silence that seamed to stretch out for minutes.

"You might want to come to St Bart's." there was another pause before he added "We're on the roof."

Sherlock lowered the phone to his side. He didn't bother to hang it up. It just sat loosely in his hand as the other side of the phone let out a single unwavering annoying tone. Hamish hurried over to his father and peeled the phone from Sherlock's hand and hung up.

"What is it, daddy?" Hamish asked as he put the phone down and looked up at his father's vacant expression. He began tugging at Sherlock's pant leg after ten seconds of silence. "Dad, daddy? Where's mummy? What did Greg say?" Hamish continued to question franticly as his father remained in a state of isolation. His little heart began hammering in his chest as his little hand tugged on the hem of Sherlock's coat franticly wanting questions.

Eventually Sherlock looked down at his son. Tears pooled in Hamish's eyes. Molly's eyes. Two deep brown circles full of curiosity and knowledge. Kneeling down, sherlock placed a hand on Hamish's shoulder looking into those big brown eyes.

"I have to go to St Bart's, I'm going to drop you off with John and Mary while I sort something out, ok?"

"NO! Not ok! I want to come with you!" Sherlock sighed.

"I can't take you with me."

"Why not." He mumbled.

"Because I want to protect you."

"I can look after myself."

"Hamish, do as I say. Stay put at John's and don't ask too may questions. Wait until I pick you up. Okay" crumbling under the pressure of his father's extremely sharp glare, Hamish gave in.

"Okay."

"Good. Now, put a jacket and some shoes on." Hamish tottered off to his bedroom to collect a small pair of boots and a jumper, much like one of John's. He took his time, but on his return, Hamish thrust the items of clothing up at his impatient father. Sherlock tied Hamish's tiny shoelaces, which took longer that he had hoped, and pulled the jumper over Hamish's head, ruffling Hamish's thick black curls when his head finally slid through the head hole.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Impatiently, Sherlock rung the annoying doorbell to John's house for the third time. He was about to ring again when Mary opened the door angrily. She blinked sleepily at the two men who stood on her doorstep.

"Sherlock?" She asked through squinted eyes. "What are you doing here? It's," Mary looked down at her watch "6:15. John had to work night shift last night, you know that, he's not in the mood for crime fighting, not yet at least."

"I need you to look after Hamish for a the day." With this, Sherlock invited himself and his son into the door past Mary. The sneaky little boy slithered past Mary and made himself at home taking a seat on the couch and turning the TV on turning the volume down to a minimum.

"Wha—" Mary glanced between Sherlock and Hamish "Can't Molly—" at the mention of his mother's name, Sherlock's jaw clenched and a soft sob could be heard from the living room, followed by a patter of feet. Sherlock bent down to scoop up Hamish who's arms were spread out wanting a hug.

"Please find her, daddy" he whispered into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of Hamish's neck and whispered back.

"I'll do what I can. You need to promise me that you will be strong, for Mummy, Okay?" Sherlock's usually uncaring personality seamed to shatter when his voice gave way as tears rose to his throat in a lump.

"Okay, daddy" Hamish's sobs were halted but the tears continued to roll.

"Don't go wondering, and stay with Mary and John. I love you. I'll come and get you as soon as I can, Okay?"

"Yes, Daddy. Goodbye" Hamish pulled away from his father's tight embrace to face Mary with his arms outstretched. Carefully, Mary took Hamish from Sherlock who was strangely reluctant to let go. She marvelled at the detective, a man who she believed to be such a hard, cold man, as he quickly whipped away a salty tear from his eye.

"Goodbye, Hamish. Mary." With that, Sherlock closed the door on Mary's face and left, as quickly as he could getting back into the cab he had hailed to get him here.

"Where to?" Asked the cabby

"St Bartholomew's Hospital."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Mary just didn't know what to do. Hamish sat, nestled in Mary's arms. The poor thing was so tired that he had no more energy to sob, and tears just rolled off his cheeks onto Molly's shoulder.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Mary asked soothingly. Hamish just shook his head, rubbing his face dry on her shirt in the process. "No? Ok. Do you want anything to drink?" Again, Hamish rubbed his face against Mary's shirt. "No? Oh, ok. Food? No? Shall we just watch telly?" Hamish gave a little nod pulling his face out from the safe confines of the t-shirt. One of his small clenched hands remained full of soft pyjama top as he used the other to point to the television.

"Yeah," he mumbled resting his head down lightly on Mary's shoulder. She took a seat and adjusted Hamish so he was sitting on her lap with a good view of the telly, but he could still rest his head, if he needed it.

"What channel would he usually watch?" She asked herself while staring at the remote. Before she even had time to decide, Hamish started clawing for the remote with slight grunts, too tired to use proper words, until his little sweaty hands encased the remote as he punched in the number of his preferred station. Bright colours and over dramatic people greeted her as Hamish settled back down.

Mary fathomed over how Sherlock coped with this extremely bright and overacted noise blaring in the background 24/7 and then realised that Molly was probably the one who made Sherlock sit thought this torture due to the "educational" channels that Hamish could easily outsmart already.

However she tried, Mary couldn't see what Hamish found so enticing about the particular program that was playing, resulting in her mind flashing back to the tear Sherlock had shed on her doorstep, the small meaningful conversation he had held with Hamish and how it was only a mention of Molly's name that had set the two of them off. Only Molly could have brought the great Sherlock Holmes to shedding a tear with his son. She itched to know the answer as to what had happened to Molly. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound off John's shuffling feet.

"What the hell are you watching?" He rubbed a sleepy eye as he walked around the corner to see Hamish resting sleepily against Mary's shoulder watching an extremely colourful show about shapes and colours hosted by a terrible actor. "Oh…"

"Hello, John." Came Hamish's sleepy little voice muffled by Mary's shirt.

"Hi, Hame. Where's dad?" Asked John.

"Looking for Mummy." John frowned.

"Why, what ha—" seeing Mary's warning gaze, John stopped himself from saying anything more. "Oh, ok then." John turned on his heals to head back to his room and grabbed a phone on his way to give Sherlock a much deserved call.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Sherlock threw the money he owed the cabby at the driver in desperation when he saw the familiar police car parked on the curb. He went to run inside as fast as he could, but the cold ice was slippery and forced him to walk agonisingly slowly up the stairs of St Bart's Hospital. Once he was in side he was able to move faster. His legs moved at a quickened pace but he slowed, momentarily, when he saw Lestrade at the end of the hall talking to one of the doctors. The doctor wore a concerned and slightly terrified face.

"I hope you sort this out Inspector. I wouldn't want a murder running around the hospital; it would scare the already stressed out patients."

"We'll do your best. Don't worry your patients, I'm sure he won't be of any danger to any of the patient's or their doctors."

"You called for me, Lestrade?" Sherlock interjected. The doctor walked away giving Sherlock shifty eyes.

"Ah, yes." Lestrade looked down at his hands.

"You said it concerned Molly. Where is she?" His voice was incredibly firm in a slightly threatening way.

"She's on the roof top." Sherlock turned quickly to the stairs bounding up them two at a time; the elevator would've taken too long. "Sherlock!" Lestrade called after the tall man as his coat billowed out behind him. Lestrade tried matching his pace, it wasn't easy, but he manage.

"Stop!" He huffed when he had gotten close enough to grab the hem of Sherlock's sleeve. Her whirled around fire blazing in his eyes. Lestrade took his time to regain his breath delaying the news he had to tell. "She's… well, she's not exactly alive"  
"What do you mean?" Sherlock knew exactly what Lestrade meant. He just refused to believe it. Not until he heard the words.

"Sherlock," Lestrade let out a sigh, hung his head low and pinched his eyes closed, "she's dead."


	2. Chapter 2 - the Murder

**_AN: Thank you to every one who reviewed, followed and favourited the last chapter. This is my first fan fic so it means a lot. _**

**_To anyone who was wondering, Hamish is 6. _**

**_ I hope you all enjoy this chapter and don't forget to leave you thoughts and comments and reviews._**

* * *

Lestrade watched as the blazing fire in Sherlock's crystal blue eyes turned to stone cold, icy refusal. He watched Sherlock clench his teeth and swallow as his bottom lip trembled. Never, in all the years Lestrade had worked with Sherlock Holmes, never had he seen his emotions, his true emotions, reflected so rawly on his features. Not even when he had stood an the altar and married Molly, or when he had proudly presented his son to everyone at the station, or when he returned from the dead. Those moments had reflected very little of how Sherlock felt in comparison to the moment when Lestrade had pronounced Molly, the one true love in Sherlock's life, dead.

Sherlock gave one, extremely slow shake of his head before bounding up the stairs taking two at a time. He needed to see it for himself. He knew Lestrade wouldn't lie to him about something this important, but he still needed to see it with his own eyes. He wouldn't believe that his Molly would be dead until he saw her corpse lying dead on the ground. His sweet, beautiful, kind Molly, his sanity, could not be dead. She just couldn't.

Lestrade followed acquiescently up the stairs. He didn't want to see Sherlock's face when he saw Molly's guts sprawled over the roof top. He especially didn't want to experience the aftermath.

"Sherlock!" Came Anderson's surprise from the top of the stairs. "What are you doing here?"

"I think you would know exactly what I'm doing here. I wouldn't have thought that even you could at least put two small pieces together." His voice was solemn as he tried to maintain a powerful quality. "Now, would you let me through?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Holmes." Anderson's voice was definite as he tried staring down the consulting detective to no avail.

"Why not?"

"Because it's a crime scene."

"That hasn't stopped me before." Sherlock shoved Anderson out of the way only to be met by Donovan.

"I'd stay out of this one if I were you, Freak." It was the first time Sally had said something out of pure concern. Sally knew from her own observations how much Molly had really meant to him.

"All the more reason to take a look." Sherlock was about to slide past her when she reached a hand up to touch his shoulder.

"It's not pretty. Please, just, go home." She looked into his hard eyes. "Loosing a parent isn't easy… Hamish needs all the support he can get." Sally saw the flash of stubbornness in Sherlock's eyes that he dampened quickly before turning emotionless once more.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice came from behind him but he didn't want to be delayed any more. The more people held him back from looking, the more he wanted to find out what had happened to his Molly. He stepped out of the door as Lestrade finished what he had to say, "you won't like what you see, but don't destroy the little evidence that we have. We want to sole this just as much as you do."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"It's been a lovely chat. At least your blood will paint a beautiful picture in the snow." The trigger was about to be pulled when a screech came from their only exit. Sebastian looked up and Molly wheeled around to see who had found their secret meeting. It wasn't clear as to who it was because of the terrible lighting, but the screech had definitely been female. Moran's gun pointed at the other woman on the roof top.

"Don't you dare try anything funny!" Shouted Moran firing a warning shot that cracked through the cold night's air at the ground, just centre metres from where the lady stood. She gave a whelp of surprise and raised her hands in surrender.

"Come here," the woman took a shaky step forward. The snow had stopped but the lighting angles were still terrible making it unclear as to who it was that had postponed Molly's judgment, "that's it. A bit closer," another step, "don't be shy," the lady slowly made her way over to where Molly stood. Here Molly recognised the receptionist. She was relatively new to the job but had voluntarily taken a fair few of the nightshifts. Bad decision.

"Now, Molly dear, take my hand." The gun remained on the receptionist as Moran held out his hand for Molly to take. She did so without question. Moran's hand enclosed around her's pulling her to stand slightly behind him as he, without taking a second glance, shot the receptionist down to the ground.

Molly swallowed a scream. She looked at Moran in absolute terror. Her eyes the size of saucers as she flicked her eyes between the receptionist and Moran. He placed the gun back in his pocket as he bent down and stripped the corpse of clothes. He turned to Molly.

"Take your clothes off."

"What?" She mumbled extremely horrified and confused.

"Take your clothes off, or end up like her." Moran gestured to the naked bleeding corpse with a bullet through her brain. Molly fumbled with her clothes. She stood shivering in on the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital wearing no clothes and staring at a dead corpse next to an assassin. Moran thrust the receptionist's clothing at Molly.

"Put it on." Molly did as she was asked. Moran began dressing the corpse in Molly's clothes. Once he was finished he pulled out a scalpel.

"What's your job Dr Molly Hooper?" He asked placing the knife to Molly's palm.

"A pathologist." He voice was barely a whisper as she realised what this brute of a man was about to do.

"Well done. What does a pathologist do?"

"A pathologist dissects human corpses to determine the cause of their death."

"Very good. Now, if I asked you to take this knife, and cut out this poor woman's heart and intestines, would you be able to do that for me?" Her heart leaped into her throat.

"Never."

"Oh, now, don't be like that," he produced the gun again and placed it to her temple, "cut the body, Dr Hooper." She didn't move. The gun clicked over. It was loaded and ready to blow a hole in her head. "Do it." She crumbled. A tear bubbled over her bottom lid as she bent down to the corpse wearing her clothing.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Moran held out a pair of surgical gloves. Molly took them from him and put them on before she began her work. She started with the intestines. She sliced open the corpse and worked as if there wasn't a deadly assassin pressing a gun to her head enjoying watching her work.

"What do you want me to do with them?" She asked when the large intestine and small intestine were free for her disposal.

With a wicked grin Moran answered "I want you to take them out, and wrap them around her neck and head. But leave the face exposed." She swallowed nervously. She turned back to the body as she discretely pulled her mobile from her jacket pocket and placed it in the receptionist's that she now wore.

Molly's hands had stayed relatively clean from cutting open a newly dead corpse, but they couldn't sustain the fiction of being white for much longer as Molly's hands dipped into the corpse. The muscles squirmed and squelched at her touch and she felt around for the start of the small intestine and cut it off. She strung it out over the shoulders, neck behind the head and even under the neck. Blood was splattered all over the corpse's face and body. The blood in the snow melted the ice as it spread along creating vines of blood spurting out from behind the poor lady giving a very dramatic look to the already bloody scene.

"Now the heart Dr Hooper, we're not done just yet. Cut it out." He nudged the gun closer to her temple as she leaned down and continued to slice. She could see the heart resting slightly under the rib cage. She reached in and cut the four arteries joining the heart to the blood stream, pulling it from the centre of the corpse.

"Very good," Moran's voice itched with excitement as we watched Molly pull the bloody heart up and out, "place it there." He pointed to a patch of clean snow. Molly did as instructed. "Now I want you to write with your finger, using the blood, these words in capital letters: GET SHERLOCK." With a shaking hand, Molly wrote the words below the heart.

"Stand up and give me the knife." Molly handed the scalpel to Moran who took her spot next to the destroyed corpse. He ran the blade over the woman's face several times leaving scratches all over her face, destroying any way of identifying her by recognition of her facial features. Molly couldn't watch any longer. She turned away as she saw Moran move towards the throat.

"You're going to watch this miss Hooper." She watched as he produced a satchel of blood.

"Who's blood is that?" She asked with a week voice.

"Yours. It was supposed to be for you, but this is better." He split the bag and let Molly's blood ooze into the centres of all the victim's wounds. If someone who didn't know better saw what Molly was seeing, it would look like the initial death weren't from a gun, but from pain and blood loss.

Moran took a step back to observe his work. He nodded in approval before turning around to face Molly. He went to take her hand when he noticed she still wore the blood covered surgical gloves.

"Take off your gloves." He instructed. Molly did so without a fuss, not moving her eyes from the poor lady on the floor. What a way to go. Molly weekly lifted her hands, holding the gloves, to Moran who took them and shoved them into his pockets not caring about how bloody they were.

"Well done, Molly. Now, before we go, there is one thing left for me to do."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

It took Sherlock less than five seconds to find her body but it took him about a minute before he made a move to wards it. Both Donovan and Lestrade watched as Sherlock took in his surroundings.

Near the middle of the roof, lay a body covered in blood and snow. It was unmistakably female. Around her head lay her intestines, both small and large, twirling and mixing with her blood stained hair. The blood from such a treatment spurted out like veins across the snow. To the right of the body was the heart. The muscle it's self had it's own puddle of blood. Underneath the puddle were the familiar and haunting words: GET SHERLOCK.

His heart thudded in his chest. Here there were no security cameras to see who wrote the note, yet Sherlock was certain he knew the kind of person who would write such a note. A fan. Someone who had watched him. Someone who knew where Sherlock's heart lies. He took a step towards the body. He had to see Molly's face. He wouldn't believe that it was her until he could identify the body as Molly's. He tilted his head slightly to get a slightly better look from where he stood. He let go of the emotionless mask he always wore allowing his face to fill with curiosity, concern, horror, anger and sorrow when he recognised Molly's clothing. Her face was too blood covered for her features to be recognisable. But all he needed were a few signs, like her height, weight and the small blisters on her fingers from the way she held her set of surgical knives, for him to identify the body as Molly's.

Lestrade went to comfort the famous detective but was stopped by Donovan who, herself, felt tears of sadness in the back of her throat just from seeing such a strong man crumble. It was agonisingly painful to watch but it was a moment Sherlock needed by himself that would've been ruined by Lestrade if he had intervened.

Before Sherlock could stop himself, a warm tear rolled down his cheek and his knees buckled. He fell to his knees, the cold wet snow seeped through his clothing. He wiped his ripe tear from his cheek. He looked at it carefully. Sentiment. He let his head fall into the palms of his hands. He had never meant it to get this far. He didn't need feelings, he didn't want feelings; caring was a disadvantage, but he had allowed Molly make him feel feelings. He had allowed Molly to reduce him to a normal boring person with feelings and he had let her do it willingly. He thought the way he felt about Molly would wash over, but it never had. Especially not when Hamish had came into perspective. Sherlock raised his head from his hands to look at Molly. Don't let him forget me.

His phone began to ring in his pocket. He stood and pulled the phone from his jacket. He looked down to see John's number and he answered. He needed his blogger. He cleared his throat before talking

"John, come to St Bart's."

"Why? Are you ok? Is Molly ok?"

"I said come to St Bart's." Sherlock hung up on John before leaving the roof. He avoided the sympathetic looks from Lestrade and Donovan as he made his way back down the stairs.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

John hung up the phone before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He got dressed quickly knowing that something wasn't quite right. He left his bedroom placing the phone back where he had gotten it from.

"I'm going out." He called as he walked past his wife and god son who were sleepily watching another annoying program.

"Oh, ok." Mary said quite confused. "Do you know when you'll be back?"

"No. It depends on the scale of the crime." Mary understood what he meant where as Hamish continued to stair blankly at the moving pictures on the television screen.

"Ah. I'll see you later, then." John gave a quick nod before heading out the door. "Looks like it's just you and me for the day." She bounced Hamish lightly on her leg. "Did you want to do anything special later today?" She asked him.

"I want to go to the shops." His reply had surprised her. She thought that he might've just said 'no' or 'I want to help daddy' or 'watch a movie', something with a simple answer.

"Oh, what do you want to buy?"

"A photo frame." He said simply.

"What did you want to frame?" He showed Mary the small photograph Molly had left behind. He placed it lightly in her exposed palm. She turned it over and read the note. She gasped. Only now, she realised the seriousness of the situation. "I'm sure we'd be able to get a frame, don't you worry. Not now though, it's too early." She handed back the portrait to Hamish who put it in his pocket.

She began chewing on her lip as Hamish crawled off her knee and found his way over to the DVD's where he picked one out that was suitable for him. Mary set it up quite absentmindedly before she took her seat on the couch. Hamish rested his head on her lap as he started to nod off while Mary's head buzzed with frantic questions about her friend's safety.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

John easily spotted Sherlock standing outside of St Bartholomew's Hospital on his approach. He stopped the cab, paid, and walked over to where the tall man stood.

"Is everything alright?" John asked when Sherlock had failed to notice him approaching. His mind was elsewhere and he looked almost startled to see John.

"Not quite." He looked down at John and gave a very uncharacteristic week smile. Taking a closer look at Sherlock, he could see that his eyes were red from crying and his bottom eyelid still had dried tears around it.

"Why, what happened?" He asked the concern thick in his voice.

"It's Molly," Sherlock sucked his teeth as he tried to steady his voice and not begin crying. John was patient as he waited for an answer, "her body was found last night on the roof top."

John's heart skipped a beat. Molly was dead? But how?

"How was she killed?"

"Her throat was slit before her intestines and heart were pulled out." John grimaced at the news. "There was a note left by the killer as well."

"What did it say."

"It was an instruction: Get Sherlock." John's heart sank. This was not good in the slightest.

"Shall we go and take another look then?" He asked cautiously. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't in the mood for looking at his dead wife. Sherlock have a single nod and a swallow as turned to walk back inside the hospital.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

John was greeted by Lestrade at the top of the stairs. He didn't look very happy at all. He looked like he had been grieving all morning. Not a good sign.

"Hi, John." He said with a week, tired smile.

"Hi. Can I ask what we know about the body?"

"It's Molly, John, there isn't much we don't all ready know about her." John was slightly taken back by Sherlock's harsh reply.

"I was talking about when she died, method of death, when was she found." He shot back.

Lestrade flicked a cautious eye between the two before he gave the answers. "Victim died between 3:00am - 3:30am this morning. The janitor found her at around 4:00am when he went to service the heating system. When asked if he had heard anything unusual, he told us that he had heard two gun shots. We found one bullet, from a hand gun, in the snow the other one is yet to be discovered. It is believed that the initial death was from a slit throat before the surgery began."

Both Sherlock and John listened intently. John made notes in his notepad and Sherlock just stood absorbing the information.

"Can I take a look?" John asked as he motioned to past Lestrade at the roof.

"Sure. It's not pretty though." Lestrade moved aside and allowed John through. Sherlock went to follow when Lestrade stopped him with his arm.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm fine."

"No you're not."

"My wife's lying dead on the floor of the roof I faked my death from. How do you think I'm doing?" His cold eyes sliced through Lestrade like lasers.

"Ok, I understand. I was just asking. From one friend to the next." Sherlock's gaze softened, just a little, but it was enough for Lestrade to notice. Without a second glance, Sherlock walked past Lestrade to join John who was standing grimacing at the red mess of blood and guts.

"Who would do such a thing?" John asked in a small voice.

"Someone who has watched us. Someone who knows us. Or knows of us." Sherlock paused before adding, "Possibly someone we've met." He looked down at John who's eyes remained on Molly's dead body. "Who ever it was, Molly knew them, otherwise she would've informed me of the threat note she received."

"Threat note?" John asked

"Only reason she would've come. It wasn't a death threat though, she would've left her phone at home and she wouldn't have changed her SIM card if there was the slightest ounce of hope." He ran his eyes once again over the mangled body. He stopped when he reached her hair.

He took a step closer to where the dead body lay on the floor to take a proper look. Molly always wore her hair in a pony tail, she didn't take it out to sleep either. She had gone to bed with a pony tail and here she lay on the floor with no sign of a hair tie. There was no kink in her hair where her hair was usually pulled tight by the tie. The victim's hair was dry from it constantly being straightened; Molly didn't own a straightener.

Sherlock moved closer to the body to get a better look. He pulled out his pocket magnifying glass and began searching over the body. The first initial cut was to the throat. No. It was a bullet. Amongst all of the insides, scratches and blood, he saw small bullet hole. It was a bullet that had killed the victim. Everything else was performed after she was dead.

"Lestrade," Sherlock called. Lestrade turned around to see Sherlock bent intensely over Molly's body. He came over to where John stood and watched the detective work, "I found you're other bullet."

"What?" Both John and Lestrade asked.

"Her throat wasn't slit, a bullet killed her."

"What bullet?" Asked Lestrade

"That one." Using a pen from his pocket, Sherlock lifted away the intestine to reveal a bullet hole. He nodded in satisfaction as he showed the wound to Lestrade.

But if the bullet had killed her, why was there so much blood around the other wounds? He bent down over the corpse again. After a quick examination he sat up straight looking into the distance.

The blood on the body didn't belong to the blood of the body. Blood had been poured over the victim, that's why there was so much blood in the snow; even the horrific cuts couldn't have bled that much.

He lifted one of the eyelids to expose a pale blue eye. Anger and frustration flowed through his veins. He'd been played for a fool.

This wasn't Molly.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Moran guided Molly down the stairs one strong hand on her shoulder, the other holding the gun against her back. She was guided down to the ground floor. Checking to make sure the coast was clear, he flung her into the seat behind the front desk.

"Now, I had checked with that sweet lady how long her shift lasted so I knew how long I had. Turns out, she needed to sign out," he glanced at the clock, "in fifteen minutes. And you, dear Molly, forgot to sign in when you arrived. Please make the corrections." He gestured to the hospital's employee attendance log on the computer in front of her.

He dug the gun into her back when she had refused to make any changes. Arching her back in responsive pain, she 'fixed' her and the receptionist's sign in and out times. Molly saved the document and turned to look up at Moran's face. He wore an evil grin as he watched his plan fall into place.

"Perfect." He mumbled his vial grin still plastered on his face. "Excellent. Now, if you don't mind I'd like you to walk out that door and get into the black sedan." Molly stood slowly. Moran followed her with his gun now safely back in his pocket, down the stairs out the front of St Bartholomew's Hospital. Just as Molly reached the bottom step, a black sedan with tinted windows pulled up. Wrapping her new jumper around her self, crossing her arms in front of her body and wiping a loose strand of hair from her face, she climbed into the car followed by Moran.

"Where to, sir?" Came the driver's voice.

"Take us home." The voice that wrung out was very much one that she had thought she would never hear again. It had and Irish accent and undeniable hint of madness behind it. Molly whirled around to see where the voice had come from. The only people who were in the car were her and Moran despite the fact that she had most definitely just heard Jim's voice. She looked at Moran with a Horrified glance. He winked at her.

"I'm rather good at impressions, don't you think?" Moran's lips moved but Moriarty's voice spoke. At this point Molly wasn't sure if it was Moran telling her he could do impressions or Moriarty telling her he could impersonate his right hand man uncannily well. Not wanting to know the answer, she sunk into her chair and looked out the window watching the snow beginning to fall again.

It had been an eventful evening and she just wanted to be home in Sherlock's arms but instead she was on her way to a deadly assassin's house after just slaughtering an innocent women on the roof of a building her husband had faked his death from. She needed a rest but she didn't dare close her eyes in the company of such a dangerous man.


	3. Chapter 3 - the Fool

**_A/N: Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited and followed chapter 2. I make should mention that I make a mention of Thomas Harris's Hannibal Lecter series In this chapter but it's only a mention. I don't know what else I should say other than I hope you enjoy this chapter as well. :)_**

* * *

"Sherlock? You ok?" John asked with caution. He watched as Sherlock remained passive. "What have you found?" He coaxed.

"What made you believe that this is Molly, Lestrade?" His head whipped around an intense glare in his eyes.

"I checked which people, staff members and guests, had signed in to the hospital and not signed out around the suspected time of murder. Molly was the only person who couldn't be found. I also recognised her clothes; she wore them when she came in to the station last week to give you the data for the Addlestone murders. Why?"

"This isn't Molly." Hope bubbled in the pit of John's stomach yet he knew what Sherlock had said was most definitely not true going by the fact that he was trying not to vomit at the horrid sight of Molly's sliced cadaver.

"Sherlock, I know that's what you want to believe but it is Molly; we took a blood sample to make sure." Lestrade looked sympathetically at the detective. Sherlock just smiled.

"_Sherlock_!" John exclaimed in shock. "Your wife is lying dead on the floor in front of you and you're _smiling_?"

"She's not my wife. She was nobody's wife. Just take a look at her finger, there isn't even the slightest trace of a ring around any of her fingers, Molly never removes hers." Sherlock played with the ring on his left ring finger with his thumb as he spoke. Lestrade examined the lady's hand, sure enough, there was no evidence of a ring.

"That doesn't explain why she's wearing Molly's clothes, or the blood sample."

"Molly was here, watched the murder take place. That's why the body is wearing her clothes. It also describes the 'stress' marks in the snow from where the lady's throat was supposedly slit. The killer dressed the corpse in Molly's clothes after the bullet penetrated the skull, that's why the body moved. Molly then put on the victim's clothes. The intestines were cut out and spread around the head and neck to try and distract me from the fact that the only reason there are cuts on her face, is to try and make her facial features unrecognisable when covered in Molly's blood. Intestines don't bleed and there is far too much blood in the hair to have come only from the blood that had laced the intestines when they had been in the body. If that's not enough, the victim's eyes are blue." There was silence as everyone on the roof top had stopped to listen to Sherlock ramble on presenting unseen evidence, the smile on his lips growing ever larger the more he talked. Everybody stared blankly at him. "Don't you see what this means? She lives!" He let out a short quick laugh of joy.

"Never the less, you're standing over a dead body and laughing." John said fighting the joy inside him.

"Not good?"

"Bit not good." A smile tugged at John's lips as he tried to not give in to the overwhelming joy he felt. It went as unnoticed by Sherlock as the bright joyous twinkle in John's eye.

"So, how did Molly's blood end up on the victim?" Asked Lestrade who was still mulling it over.

"Blood bank. Molly often donated blood, it wouldn't be hard to get a bag of the stuff."

"And he then poured it over this poor girl's wounds to disguise her identity? Wow. Poor sod. But who is she?"

"Haven't the slightest." There was a moment while Sherlock contemplated what he was going to do next. He looked down at the corpse's face covered in blood and guts. It was definitely not Molly. The more he looked, the more he saw how different her features were.

"Take her into the morgue, clean her off, tidy her up. Take a DNA sample of something that isn't completely covered in blood and check the staff and visitor log again and contact anyone who left around the time of the murder. If you don't find someone, it will be them, the DNA samples will be a confirmation."

With a long exasperated intake of breath, Lestrade ordered the forensics team to remove the body, and it's missing parts, off to the morgue, until there was nothing left but pools of Molly's blood and the little message.

"Are you sure about this?" John asked looking at the two words painted in blood. He received a puzzled look from Sherlock before he added "You could be just imagining what you wa—"

"Positive." Sherlock cut him off before he could say any more turning around away and walking over to a table that had several items on evidence on top.

"Did the body's clothing have anything in it's pockets?" Sherlock asked as he reached the table. "A phone perhaps?"

"The was no phone but we found this note in her jacket pocket after we had claimed the victim as Molly. It only helped support our theory." Anderson handed a bag with a small slip of paper inside to Sherlock as he spoke. He pulled the note out of the bag and read it.

**I knew your husband once, our games were fun. Come and play, Dr Molly ****_Holmes_****. 3:15am Thursday St. Bart's Hospital rooftop.—JM.**

Sherlock looked up from the note to the message left in the snow. He had been here before, but this time, something was different.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

During the car ride, Molly took occasional notes of street names and whether the turn was left or right. In the end, they turned up at an abandoned apartment block the place was horrendously run down with cracked walls and pavement. Surely a man who could afford such a car as the one they drove in could afford to at least have a comfortable place to live. Molly was ushered out of the car and onto the doorstep of the house. Moran knocked on the door and it was opened by a man wearing a suit.

"Ah, Master Moran. Thank goodness you have returned. We have had several clients already this morning all of which are in the living room as we speak." The butler opened the door exposing a beautiful long hall laced with a thick blood red carpet leading to a large archway. The hall was lined with four doors all of which were made out of rich brown wood with brass handles and numbers. "And who is this?" The butler motioned to Molly.

"She is our bait, Mr Andrews." The butler's eyes widened with understanding. "She will have room four. Make sure the room has clothing suitable for a decent woman." With a nod, Mr Andrews produced a key hoop from his pocket and bustled off to the fourth door to make the room tidy for their new guest.

Moran stepped inside followed by Molly. He walked down the hall past a mirror between doors one and three and stopped in the arch way. He turned to Molly and gestured for her to walk through door number four. She turned the brass handle in her hand and was confronted by a large set of wooden stairs covered in the same thick red carpet as the hall. She walked up them, one hand running along the brass railing on her right. She reached the top of the stairs and had to bite down a gasp of awe at the sight of the beautiful room.

The red carpet stretched the size of the room touching the rich brown wooden skirting boards. The walls were covered in a wallpaper that's pattern wasn't that different from the one back at 221B, the only difference was the pattern was caramel on white and a lot easier on the eyes. A wooden four-poster king sized bed with a canopy laced with fine white silk and a large beautifully crafted bed head sat in the middle of the wall closest to the house's front door. Opposite it was a white chair with intricately designed legs behind a matching desk with several draws and a large mirror. The entire far wall was a single window that was covered by think creamy-caramel curtains. On either side of the desk and mirror was a white wooden door; one lead to the en-suite and the other to a walk in wardrobe. She jumped slightly at the sound of Moran's voice from behind her.

"This is where you will stay until I have use for you again. You can call Mr Andrews with that bell pull next to this door if you need anything: food, water. Oh, and smile." He grinned at the far corner of the roof. "That's right, I have cameras, so don't do anything too stupid because I'm watching. I'm always watching." He winked before leaving the room and closing the door behind him with a heavy slam.

"Don't worry, ma'am," Mr Andrews's voice trailed out from the walk in wardrobe that he was filling with feminine clothing, "there are only two in the main bedroom and one in the bathroom, if you close the wardrobe's door, you will be offered some privacy."

"Thank you." Molly's voice was soft, but she was pleased to know that she could perhaps trust Mr Andrews a little.

"My pleasure. Just between you and me," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "the only reason I am here is because he has my family locked away from me. I am allowed to see them on occasion as long as I work for him and stay relatively loyal." He gave a week smile. "You, Dr Holmes, are in a much worse position. I'd make sure everything and everyone whom you hold dear gets the hell away from London for a while." With that, Mr Andrews finished decking out the wardrobe with clothing and left leaving Molly standing dumbfounded and very alone in the the middle of the room.

Realising that she had been holding her breath, she let out a sigh, blinked twice, then moved towards the wardrobe to find a comfortable pair of pyjamas for her to change into. She did so placing the dead receptionist's uniform in a clothes basket and the jacket on a coat hanger. She removed her phone from the jacket pocket and discretely placed it in one of the draws in the white desk. She moved over to the bed and snuggled into the sheets to warm herself up. Despite the horrifying memories of the last few hours that flashed before her eyes, Molly was able to fall asleep relatively quickly. But even in her sleep, she was haunted by the image of the innocent receptionist lying dead on the rooftop with her guts spread everywhere thanks to Molly's hand. She would never be able to forgive herself for what she had done, even if others eventually did.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Blood. Gore. Flesh. Death. Sherlock. Hamish. John. Mary. Home. Moran. Moriarty. The rooftop. Falling. Falling. Falling. Smash.

Molly sat straight up. The sensation of floating through nothingness to land heavily on the rough ground through her semiconscious dream filled sleep had startled her, shaking her whole body as adrenaline pumped through her. It took a moment for her to remember where she was, but when she did, she had hoped that reality had just been part of her crazy dream.

She took a moment to gather herself before searching the room for a clock. She found a digital one sunk into the wall next to the bell pull. It read 9:34am. She rubbed her face in her hands before going to the wardrobe to pick out the day's outfit. Deciding she needed it, Molly took a shower in the biggest en-suite she had ever seen. It had a bath separate to a glass shower, a toilet, a sink, draws and even a urinal (not necessary for Molly, but perhaps the male visitors would find it of great use).

She was surprised by the amount of dried blood there was on her hands despite the gloves and it took a fair amount of time to wash off. She even washed her hair deciding to take full advantage of her hospitalities. She came out of the the bathroom after a considerable amount of time, wearing clothes that were slightly to big for her to wear comfortably.

She combed her hair into a pony tail before ringing the bell pull. The answer was almost immediate. She heard the door's lock clunk unlocked followed by the click of the door handle being turned before the door opened squeakily on it's hinges. The first face she saw was Mr Andrews' and she gave a smile. It soon faded, however, when she saw Moran's evil grin poke out above the top stair.

"Finally ready for breakfast, are we?" He asked in his uncanny imitation of Moriarty. It sent shivers down her spine.

"I was actually going to ask for a book or two." She eliminated as much emotion from her voice as possible.

"Well we brought you breakfast anyway." He motioned for Mr Andrews to remove the silver inside out bowl off the tray. He pulled it away revealing a bowl of cereal. Moran found it absolutely hilarious and bent over in cackles of laughter.

"You should've seen your face," he managed to spit out between laughs, "it was if you were expecting something really bad," he continued to laugh "ooh, watch out for the deadly cereal, the milk might drown you!" He rolled over in laughter again turning away and walking down the stairs.

"Enjoy your breakfast, ma'am, I'll get you those books you requested." Mr Andrews moved towards the stairs before turning around to face her. "Any requests? We have a large library-worthy range of stories." Molly contemplated about what she wanted to read.

"I wouldn't mind reading one of my pathology books, but I feel like reeding something fictional. I don't know, maybe some kind of graphical fictional novel?" Andrews gave a nod with a small smile.

"Don't you worry, miss, we have plenty of things in that genre." He disappeared down the stairs. During his absence, Molly ate a few spoonfuls of the cereal that lay on the tray in front of her. He returned not after long, carrying volumes of _Red Dragon_, _Silence of the lambs_, _Hannibal_ and _Hannibal Rising_. He placed them on the bed beside her.

"Were you after something like this?" He asked mentioning to the books.

"Yes, thank you." Molly said with a smile. Hannibal was probably a bit more brutal than she first imagined but it would keep her mind occupied and her head would soon fill with other people's violent problems.

She picked up _Red Dragon_ and was about to begin reading when she remembered about her phone. If she could, she would alert Sherlock of what had happened to her, and where she had ended up. As subtly as she could, she removed the phone from the draw while pretending to read the book. She placed the phone between the two pages and discretely began typing a brief message.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

John looked at the body on the the slab in the morgue. With all the blood cleared away, it was obvious that the body was definitely not Molly's.

Sherlock had been staring at the corpse for several minutes deducing as much as he could. He hadn't gathered much. From all Sherlock could tell, she was just in the wrong place in wrong time. The only evidence that was linked to the killer that he had found was the way the body had been sliced. Who ever had cut the body was skilled in human anatomy and dissection; someone with an education. However, a lot of people have a good education these days, so it wasn't much help.

There was nothing around the body that could help decide facts that could give a slight description either; there had been a light sprinkling of snow after the suggested time of murder, covering any trace of footsteps. The only thing that the murderer had left behind was the bullets in the snow and brain. And even they weren't much help; even if they discovered the type of hand gun, the number of people in London that own hand guns is surprisingly high.

Frustration coursed through him. He felt like snapping something. The only thing Sherlock could do was wait for the killer to make a mistake. It was obvious that he was playing a game and not one Sherlock was willing to play. But the killer had already made a mistake; the fool had not killed Molly.

His phone buzzed. He had received a text. Sherlock looked at the screen. An unknown number. Sherlock's heart thumped in his throat as he read the text.

**I must be brief.  
It's me, Molly.  
The woman on the roof was the receptionist, I'm alive.  
Sebastian Moran killed her.  
I'm at his house now.  
I believe he will be targeting the rest of our friends and family.  
Don't worry about me.  
KEEP HAMISH SAFE.**

Sherlock looked up from his phone as his head spun wildly out of control. Molly was alive and in the hands of Sebastian Moran, who was also alive, and she wanted him to _not worry_ about her? Silly Molly, always so loyal, when was she going to learn that Sherlock would stop at nothing to protect the only things that mattered to him: his son _and_ his wife.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Hamish had fallen asleep during the movie but was now awake and full of energy. He ran around with a toy aeroplane in his hands imitating the noise of the engine. After a moment, he got bored of the plane and started pulling it apart to examine it's mechanics.

"Can we go to the shops now?" He pleaded after he had chucked it on the floor in frustration. Sleepily, Mary sat up and looked into the pleading little brown eyes of the toddler. She smiled.

"I suppose," she got up from the couch and Hamish bounced along behind her, clutching the photograph in his hands, "let me get dressed first, then we'll take the car to the shops to get your photo frame. I need to do a bit of grocery shopping while we're out, if that's ok."

"Ok, Mary." He said chirpily. He followed her down the hall and sat out the front of her bedroom while he waited for her to be ready. He played with the carpet between his fingers. In pure boredom, Hamish rested his head against the door and fell onto Mary's feet when she pulled the door away.

"Ooh! Are you ok?" Mary exclaimed as Hamish sat up rubbing the back of his head.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He mumbled containing his pain with in him. She knelt down and rubbed the crown of his head before picking him up and carrying him back down the hall, picking up her keys on the way, and out the door.

"Have you got your photograph?" She asked.

"Yes," he replied before reaching into his pocket and pulling it out to double check.

She sat him behind the driver's seat, pausing only slightly when she realised that she didn't have a booster or anything for him to sit on. She got into the car and drove away, carefully.

Hamish sat in silence during the entirety of the car trip occasionally mumbling nonsense to himself or Mary, it wasn't clear. Either way, he wasn't trying to make conversation, but piped up when the shops were in sight. He propped himself up on his knees and pressed his nose against the glass.

"It's the shop's, Mary!" He said pointing at the shopping centre through the glass, leaving a greasy fingerprint.

"Yes it is; we'll do the grocery shopping first, then we'll grab your photo frame, ok?" She spoke over her shoulder at the most eager child to go shopping that she had ever seen.

"Yes, Mary." He sunk back down into his seat and his view of the shops disappeared along with his excitement.

It didn't take long for Mary to find a parking spot, but it took her quite a while to help the squirming boy out of the car. Once he was out, he was running and skipping around Mary's feet. Perhaps she shouldn't have let him sleep. He took a hold of her hand and dragged her to the shopping centre.

"Slow down, Hamish, I'm coming, take your time." Mary giggled at the stubborn eagerness she had seen so many times within his father.

They had began grocery shopping quite successfully. Hamish helped choose the items and place them in the cart. But about half way through, he'd become bored of collecting the food and had started pulling things that Molly didn't want off the shelves. The havoc he was causing drove Mary to squish him into the shopping cart amongst the food. He didn't take to this very well and started to eat a bag of chips.

"Stop it, Hamish," She hissed in annoyance, "we haven't purchased them yet!" She smacked his wrist. And he gave a quite startled and annoyed look at the woman before taking a handful of chips, shoving them in his mouth all at once and then stuffing the chip bag beneath the muesli bars.

He spent the rest of the time making annoying noises watching how Mary reacted to each different noise. He made notes on the ones she hated most and chose to use them more often. It went on until she looked him dead in the eye and said something he hadn't expected.

"Stop it with the noises, or we don't get your photo frame, understood?" Hamish pursed his lips into a thin line and nodded. He turned around crossing his arms in front of his body watching, and, using techniques that Sherlock had taught him, began deducing people in the aisle. He mumbled words like, 'suffers anxiety', 'unhappily married', 'gay', and it made everyone, including Mary, extremely uncomfortable.

"Hamish," she said, sounding quite sympathetic, "please, can you stop?"

"Daddy does it,"

"Yeah, well your father sometimes forgets that it isn't very nice to say things about strangers when they're around."

"Oh. Why not?"

"Because sometimes, people don't want to believe the truth." Hamish looked down at his photograph.

"Like I don't want to believe that mummy might not come home?" The question broke Mary's heart.

"Something like that, yeah. Why don't we grab the photo frame and go home?" Hamish nodded not removing his eyes from the portrait.

Mary found the aisle with the frames in it amongst the other house appliances and pulled Hamish from the cart. His eyes darted around from the frames on the wall to the photo in his hand. Until he finally chose one.

"That one." He chose a small plain wooden frame painted black and Mary put it in the shopping trolly. Mary let Hamish walk around following her to the cash register and helping her load the shopping from the cart to the conveyer belt. After Mary payed, explaining the incident with the chips, she handed Hamish his photo frame. He measured the photo against the glass: it was the perfect size. He put the photo in and held it away for him to admire. With a nod of approval, he slipped it back into his pocket and happily followed Mary back to the car.

Mary loaded the groceries and Hamish into the car and was about to turn the key in the ignition when she received a call. Private number.

"Who's calling?" Asked Hamish.

"I don't know; it's a private number."

"It might be uncle Mycroft, or daddy; he usually switches off his caller ID when he has a case."

"Shall I answer it then?"

"Yes." He nodded. Little did the poor child know that it wasn't a loving relative on the phone, but rather a deadly assassin.

"Hello?"


	4. Chapter 4 - the Call

**_A/N: Finally I have gotten around to posting chapter four. Im sorry that this chapter is so late, I've had stupid Internet restrictions the past week. I'll try and update sooner next time. _**

* * *

As Molly hit the send button, she heard the door start it's long chain of clicking noises before it swung open on it's squeaky hinges. There was just enough time for Molly to place her phone back in her pocket and flip a few pages into the book.

"Enjoying your read, Dr Holmes?" Called Moran's voice from the bottom of the stairs. He got no reply as she heard his approaching footsteps. In his hand he held a phone.

"Ah, _Hannibal_; one of my favourites." He said as he took note of what she was reading. There was a moment of silence as Molly turned back to pretend she was reading and Moran watched her. He broke the long silence by asking a question.

"Do you remember, Mrs Holmes, when I told you I am rather good at impressions?" He slipped into Jim's voice mid sentence, "well I've been working on another one." He cleared his throat. "How is it?" The voice had made Molly's heart skip a beat, "It's good, isn't it." It was Sherlock. He was imitating Sherlock. It was so realistically close that she feared he had him locked up somewhere where he could record Sherlock speaking and play it back to her.

"I thought you might like it." A smile grew on Moran's face as he returned back to his normal voice. Molly just sat, horrified, on the bed. "I'm going to make a call. Does this number look familiar?" He held out the phone and Molly recognised Mary's number. He lowered the phone and raised a gun. "Say a single word, and I'll blow your brains out." He dialled the number clearing his throat as he did. He put it on speaker and waited patiently.

"Hello?"

"Mary?" The accuracy of the imitation was bone chilling.

"Yes, Sherlock? Is everything ok?" It broke Molly's heart knowing that Mary was talking about her.

"Where are you?" All Molly could think was _don't answer, don't answer_.

"Oh, I should've told you," _damn it_, "I took Hamish out to the shops to get a photo frame for him." Molly bit back a tear. The image of her little boy placing the photo of their family in a small frame was heart shattering.

"We found Molly," there was a moment where neither said anything, "she's dead." Moran looked at her a twinkle of evil in his eye.

"Oh my god." There was silence followed by a sniff and Hamish's worried chatter in the back ground on the other side of the phone. Molly wanted to scream, call out, alert her son that it was ok. But she couldn't, not with a gun pointed at her head. "Hamish wants to speak with you." Mary's voice was merely a whisper as she knew she would fail to keep her voice strong. The phone was handed over and a frantic little voice that Molly knew so well answered.

"Daddy, what happened?" Molly looked pleadingly up at Moran who, to her surprise, was crying.

"Hamish," Moran's brilliant impression came out shaky, courtesy of the tear; he wasn't sad at all, it was all for show, "mummy has passed away."

"What?" He whimpered and Molly let a heavy tear roll down her cheek. "No! No," The first had been a shout and the second a mumble, "she's not dead. She can't be." He began sobbing into the phone and Molly found herself trying extremely hard to not burst out into hysterics. It was plain torture. "What happened?" Came his little whimpering voice.

"Hand me back to Mary, and I'll tell you both." There was a pause before Mary answered again.

"What happened?" She asked.

"Put me on speaker phone; I won't be able to tell it twice." Mary did so. Here was Moran's opportunity to make up a ridiculous story. But he didn't. "Molly was killed some time last night. She was found with her guts spread everywhere and her heart ripped out." The whole time, Moran's voice quivered like a desperate man's. It was actually terrifying how good an actor Moran was.

"Sherlock, you do realise that your six year old son is listening in." Mary's voice was unstable as Molly's baby boy began wailing.

"I understand, but he has every right to know just what happened. I'm sorry, Hamish." With that, Moran hung up the phone, lowered his gun and turned to Molly who was wiping her cheeks dry of tears. He laughed out of joy, returning back to his normal voice. "That was a very beautiful and touching phone call if I do say so myself." He smiled and disappeared down the steps leaving Molly to herself.

She sat on the bed for about two minutes, not moving, just thinking. Her mind thought up many different plans as to what to do next, but all of them sounded irrational and far fetched. Eventually, Molly just gave up deciding now was a good time to let all her emotions about the past few hours flow out of her in the form of tears.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Mary hung up the phone and crawled over into the back seat to cradle Hamish in her arms. The boy was usually so emotionally strong, it must run in the family. Anyone who took the time to observe the Holmeses would know this to be true. They would also know that such a strong persona could be crushed by targeting the heart. An image of Molly's heart lying on the roof of St Bart's appeared in Mary's mind.

Hamish's wailing took it's time, but it eventually became sobs and then whimpers. After quite some time he mumbled into her chest:

"I want to go home."

"Ok, I understand." She replied and with that, Mary let go of her iron grip of the boy, wiped away her tears and took her spot behind the drivers seat once more. Hamish rested his head on top of folded arms that leant on the car door's armrest, only sniffing occasionally. Mary was about to pull into her drive way when Hamish spoke again.

"No. I want to go home." His little voice was muffled by his arms which he's hidden himself in. After a moment of self debating, Mary drove off to Baker Street. She parked out the front of 221B and noticed that a private number was trying to call her again. She declined the call and instead helped Hamish out of the car.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"Come on, pick up." Sherlock mumbled frustratedly into his phone. He'd already tried calling the home phone but it had gone to the voice mail, so he tried Mary's mobile. Nothing. He was about to call again when he realised that the call to Mary's mobile didn't ring out, it had been cut off too early. The phone call had been denied, perhaps she didn't answer private calls. "John, can I borrow your phone?" He asked.

"What, why?" It wasn't the first time John had been asked by Sherlock to hand over his phone, but it seemed an odd thing that after trying to make a call from his own phone, that was still in his hand, he wanted to use John's.

"My phone call was rejected."

"So? Call again."

"No, I need a number that will be recognised."

"Oh, alright." With a sigh, John handed over his mobile. Sherlock pocketed John's phone and walked over to Lestrade.

"Molly sent me this text about two minutes ago." He held out the phone for Lestrade to read the message.

"You got a text from Molly, and you didn't tell anyone?" John's question was ignored by both men as Lestrade asked a different one.

"How can we know that it's from her?"

"I don't. That's why I'm trying to call Mary. Either way, from Molly or not, the message is right: I need to keep Hamish safe, because if he has targeted Molly, his next target will be Hamish, and I can almost guarantee that there won't be an unlucky child at the scene of the crime." Sherlock's every word was so full of truth, it sent shivers down John's spine. If Hamish was Moran's next target, and Mary was with him, what would become of her?

"And who's Sebastian Moran?" Lestrade asked.

"He formally held a high position in the army, but went a little mad, called himself too good for them, and was sent home, his position removed."

"Give me that." John pushed past Sherlock and pulled the phone from Lestrade's hand to read the message for himself as Sherlock continued his explanation.

"He became one of Moriarty's top gun men after he found him drinking away his money and playing poor poker, but the potential of a fine assassin was seen and he was taken in. He became one of Moriarty's finest and was on hand on the day of my fall. Moran saw me escape the fall and began hunting me, and I hunting him. I thought I had beaten him, saw him dead, I then went and sold my heart to Molly Hooper and look where it has landed us."

"So this Sebastian Moran guy is supposedly dead, and now has your wife, who's death was also somewhat faked, as a captive?"

"Yes, he probably intends to use her as a bait of some kind, lure me to him so he can kill me once and for all."

"Maybe it's a bait for Mary; she and Hamish don't know about what happened this morning so the lure would work better on them." John suggested. Sherlock pulled out John's phone and dialled the number.

"All the more reason to call."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Mary had unbuckled Hamish, but his body was somewhat limp from shock and he refused to move from his seat. She heard the mobile vibrating on the dashboard and reached across the chair to angle the phone to see who was calling. It was John. She'd answer to him. She picked up the phone and held it to her ear.

"Where are you?" Came Sherlock's voice. She should've known.

"Baker Street, why?"

"I need you at St Bart's, bring Hamish and come as quickly as possible; I think someone is after you." Sherlock's words flowed out quickly and didn't halter for a moment. "Can I talk to Hamish?"

"Why are you calling? If you wanted us at St Bart's why didn't you tell us the first time you called?"

"What? My first call was rejected."

"What are you talking about?" She turned to Hamish, "Hold on," then closed the car door and went to stand on the pavement. "You called us when we were in the shopping centre car park to tell us the news about Molly, your son was crying like a two year old on my lap. How can you not remember that?"

Sherlock paused. He found himself lost for words, unable to think of anything informative to say, all he could come up with was, "I think I would remember making such a call, Mary."

"What, are you saying that it wasn't your voice that I heard mutter the words to me Hamish 'Molly was killed some time last night. She was found with her guts spread everywhere and her heart ripped out'? Because I would definitely remember a call such as that." Rage boiled in the pit of Mary's stomach as she began pacing around out the front of 221B.

"No. Mary, you must understand that I would _never_ tell such a _horrific_ and _false_ tale about my child's mother to him, and I would most _definitely_ would have not told my son, unless I had _every_ scrap of information about a case so close to our hearts." There was silence. Neither person spoke as Sherlock's words sunk in. She had stopped pacing and looked towards Hamish who sat staring blankly out the window in the car.

"But we heard your voice…" Mary's whispering voice finally broke the silence.

"To that, I have no answer, but I can guarantee that I haven't spoken a word to you since I dropped Hamish of at your house this morning, John and Lestrade can both confirm this."

"Hang on… you said that you wouldn't tell a false tale about Molly to Hamish… that means…"

"Yes, Molly is alive and in the hands of Sebastian Moran, a former gun man for the army, and one of Moriarty's top assassins… And possibly your killer." Mary gasped. She glanced up to meet Hamish's vacant, sad expression.

"What do you want me to do?" She was basically pleading, begging, knowing her and Hamish's lives was possibly at stake.

"I want to talk to Hamish, you will then drive to St Bartholomew's hospital and meet me outside. Don't make any stops, don't even go inside our flat, come straight here. Understood?"

"Yes, I'll see you soon." With that, she opened the car door and held the phone out to Hamish. He didn't take it.

"Who is it?" He asked gesturing to the phone.

"Your dad." She said shoving the phone in Hamish's direction, he refused to take it.

"I don't want to talk to him." He rolled over in his seat to face the other way. Mary sighed.

"Hamish, please. He has some good news." Again she pushed the phone closer to him and he didn't take it.

"Than why are you so pale? It it was good news, you'd be smiling, there would be a twinkle in your eye, but there isn't." He made his deductions while still staring blankly out the window.

"There's good news and bad news and I can't be the one to tell you both." Mary pleaded with the smart little boy her heart pumping as she feared he may not take the call. He huffed, turned back to Mary, snatched the phone out of her hand and held it to his ear. With a week but grateful smile, Mary pulled the seatbelt over Hamish's shoulder, buckled him in and climbed into the drive's seat.

"The bad news; I want that first." Hamish muttered into the phone. The car engine started and Mary drove away

"The bad news, Hamish, is that a very good assassin might be on your trail and he may want to kill you so I suggest you be quiet and listen." Sherlock silenced Hamish and the boy payed very close attention to his father. "I think that the man trying to hunt you, is the man who told you that your mum had died."

"No, that was you, you told me she was dead." Hamish's words brought himself to tears.

"I think you will find that it wasn't. I'm sorry you were lied to, who ever did that is a man who likes to watch people burning. That brings me to the next bit, the good news. Your mother is still alive." The words rung in Hamish's ears.

"But… you called and you… you were crying and… and who… I don't know… what happened… why did that… who was that…" he stumbled and mumbled over words unsure as to which question he wanted answered most.

"It's ok. I'll explain everything when you get to the Hospital. Right now I need you to tell me where the photograph is." Sherlock's words were strangely comforting and Hamish was happy to oblige.

"In my pocket; Mary took me out to the shops to get it framed."

"That's nice. Make sure to bring it." There was a hint of boredom in is tone.

"Is it evidence?" Hamish questioned, there was a strange eagerness that reached his lips that made Mary question what Sherlock was teaching the boy.

"It might be, I have to take a proper look. I'll see you soon, Ok? Stay safe."

"Ok." Neither of them hung up the phone, neither wanted to cut the connection. Hamish wanted everything to go back to normal, but if he couldn't have that, he'd settle for something comforting and familiar like the sound of his father's caring words. Eventually, Sherlock spoke again.

"John wants a word with Mary, could put him on speaker phone?" Hamish did as requested and held the phone as close to her mouth as he could manage.

"Mary, it's John." Hamish explained at her questioning glance.

"Mary, what the hell is going on?" Came John's voice.

"I have know idea. I only have half the pieces myself." She raised her voice to make sure the message was received.

"Where are you?"

"We're on our way to St Bart's, I'm driving at the moment."

"Oh, I didn't know. Drive safe, the snow is really icy and I forgot to get new tires." He sounded slightly embarrassed.

"That's — what the hell!" Mary lent on the horn and fiddled with the break, causing Hamish to jolt in his seat, as a car came up on her right, almost grazing the side mirror. The driver of the black sedan motioned for her to pull over and she did so.

"Mary, what's going on? Mary?" John's voice was urgent and full of worry.

"Some jerk wants me to pull over. I'll have to call you back." Mary grumbled, loudly, so John could hear.

"Ok, take care, I'll see you soon, yes?"

"Yes." John hung up the phone and Hamish did the same. The man in the passenger seat had his window down and signalled for Mary to do the same, so she did.

"What did I do wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing." Replied the driver not moving his eyes from the road. The passenger looked at him and he nodded slightly. The passenger then turned back to face Mary and hurled a small can in through the window and the driver took off. Mary sat staring after the car with disgust as she put the window back up. Once the car was out of sight, she turned to look at the small silver can that sat quite comfortably in the passenger seat. She picked it up and rolled it over in her palm. She heard a click and clear, but un-doubtfully poisonous, gas quickly gushed out of the seemingly harmless metal object in her hand.

"Cover your nose and mouth!" She shouted at Hamish as the gas began to fill up the car. In panic, Hamish unbuckled the seatbelt and used both hands to cover his face tucking his knees up to his chin. She tried opening the door, the window, the air conditioner, clear the car, but all access to fresh air had somehow been cut off. The doors had locked and not a single button worked.

Hamish fell first. His small limp body collapsed across the back seat, the photo falling out of his pocket in the process. Mary had turned around to check on him when her hand had moved away from her mouth and the gas filled her lungs causing her to pass out in a very uncomfortable position with her body sprawled over the console, one arm still trapped in the seatbelt, the other laced behind the passenger seat and her head levitated slightly over the passenger seat.

The last thing either of them heard was a car pull up behind them, the car unlocking itself and a man's voice calling over his shoulder: "We've got 'em."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Sherlock had began pacing again. Ten minutes away from having last spoken from his son and he couldn't keep still. He'd already looked into the receptionist and found her to be the one who had died. She had no connection to Moran, or any other of Moriarty's employees. She had, as he had expected, been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The fact that the text had pointed him correctly and directly to the receptionist, meant that either Moran was purposely making it easy for him, distracting him from the main event, or, the text was in fact from Molly.

"Nothing?" He asked John for the umpteenth time that minute.

"No." He replied frustrated and annoyed. Sherlock seemed to forget that his wife was a part of this as well not just Hamish. Sherlock grumbled and returned to pacing and John thought that Sherlock might be quiet for a minute, but he was wrong.

"Anything?" He asked.

"No, Sherlock, Mary said someone wanted to pull her over and that she'd call back later, when she does, you will know. Just hold on, they'll be here soon." John replied as Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration and continued to pace. After another two minutes, he had had enough. He stormed out of the hospital and walked at a quick pace off towards Baker Street walking the roads Mary would have driven. John followed, jogging to catch up, leaving Lestrade behind to help the forensics clean up the mess that was still evident on the roof.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"Looking for Mary's car."

"What? Sherlock, she's on her way, there's nothing to worry about."

"If she was on her way, she would have called already. It has been ten minutes since you hung up the phone, a pull over shouldn't take that long." Sherlock didn't remove his eyes from the street, still searching both curbs and passing cars for the familiar number plate.

"Maybe she's driving?"

"No, Hamish would have heard her promise to call back and would have done so himself." Sherlock took long, fast strides causing John to skip occasionally to match his speed.

They rounded several corners and finally Sherlock spotted the abandoned car on the curb and took off at a sprint to reach it. John followed noticing the car was empty. John was about to fling open the door when Sherlock pointed through the window at a crumpled canister at the foot of the passenger seat.

"It contained a clear poisonous gas strong enough to knock them out but weak enough to ensure they woke soon after sedation."

"Will it still be affective?" John asked hopeful for a negative answer.

"I don't know. Possibly. It's been ten minutes." Sherlock glared at John as he opened the door letting the remainder of the gas air out of the car so he could look for any more clues.

He picked up the can and turned it over in his hands. It was made of aluminium, the can was designed to pop after the can had been shaken and the pressure build up of the contents being too much for it to contain. The car keys had been removed from the ignition. Perhaps the captor would return for the car. More likely it would just remain there until the case was closed. There were a couple of items in the glove box, but none looked out of place, the majority of them being scraps of unused paper and receipts. One of the receipts was for a large amount of groceries that was labeled with the day's date. After a quick look in the boot, Sherlock identified the groceries on the list as the ones in the car.

"Skim through this list; if you find anything that looks out of place, let me know." Sherlock shoved the receipt into John's hand before continuing with his search. The only thing in the back seat was a face-down photo frame.

Sherlock picked up the photo frame turning it over in his hand. The glass had been smashed, quite deliberately with a small hammer. He ran his fingers gently over each crack in the glass. The thin cracks expanded out from where the initial break was made like a poorly made spiderweb. But it was a spiderweb nonetheless and each distorted strand danced in a special way that made a normal sort of looking picture. Like a slightly dysfunctional family. The Holmes family, the happy looking family that sat behind the smashed glass. And Moran was testing them, watching, how well they could all dance


End file.
